The End

 My mother had already passed away before last week's post posted, but I didn't know that when I wrote it up. It was just a coincidence that I wrote about her for my weekly Wednesday post and then she passed on that very Wednesday morning in the dark hours before dawn. 

I am happy that she is no longer suffering. 

I am sad that, in many ways, I never got to know her. I feel like I never got to meet the woman my dad married, at least, not as an adult. I knew that woman only as a child, and the memories are hard to dig out. 

She was ill my entire life. 

But that's my story, not hers. 

I don't know if I'm qualified to tell her story. I'm probably not. 

What It Is

Her eyes are blue like the Pacific Ocean, in the morning before the mists have been burned off by the sun, a moody, windswept blue, that, like the ocean, doesn't see me. 

Her hair is longer than I've seen it in decades, but unkempt, gray, though not ugly. A cozy, grandmotherly kind of hair.  

She is supine, in a hospital style cot that's been set up on the main floor of the house I grew up in for several years now. She's bundled up, but still looks cold. A blanket, crocheted I think, rests across her shoulders, and she pulls a bright orange corner into her mouth and chews as if by habit. I wonder when she developed pica. 

"Hi Mom. It's your daughter." I wave to her on the screen, but the internet connection isn't great on either end, and I have no idea if the image is coming through with any clarity. I just know her blue eyes don't focus anywhere near me, staring mostly straight up - at the ceiling, or at something only she can perceive?

I'm not really there, after all. She never learned how to use the internet, let alone a smartphone. How can she be expected to comprehend the little box in my brother's hand with my face on it? My voice must come out of nowhere for her, but she doesn't recognize it. I speak, but she doesn't seem to register or respond to me. She responds to the people in the room, but only sometimes. 

Other times she responds to something none of the rest of us can see or hear. 

"I hate this," she says, her voice a low mumble that drops more often than not into inaudibility, incomprehensibility. 

That, I can empathize with. Unable to move, hardly able to think or speak... It is a cruel and unusual punishment that no one deserves. 

"I love you, Mom," I say, trying to smile for her, trying to let her understand that I am with her as best as I can be. 

"What are you doing to me?" she asks my brother. 

He reassures her that he's just leaning on her pillow, or touching her hand. 

I want to be there for him, and for my dad. I don't know that she would even realize I was there if I went. If I went, it wouldn't be for her sake - or mine. 

If I went, I'd be leaving the frying pan for the fire, when it comes to rates of infection. I'd have to quarantine upon arrival and quarantine upon return - not to mention flying in an enclosed metal tube for several hours with a planeful of strangers. 

Not going is the logical choice. 

I hate this. 

Bits and Pieces

The election is over but for the shouting. 

I'm relieved at the result, but also aghast at the number of people who thought that the incumbent deserved a second term, especially after the non-handling of the pandemic. 

I had an IBS flare up that coincided with my period and the election, and it's been slow to clear. 

On Sunday, I felt awful all day even though I wasn't exactly experiencing tummy issues. The tummy was there and hurting, but it wasn't the part that made it hard for me to write. My arms had trouble. Kind of. It's hard to describe. 

Sitting up and typing made my tummy feel worse. Lying down and typing was difficult because my arms kept losing tension. I typed a bit and then my arms would just be like, naw, give us a break and I'd let them go to my sides for a bit and then type again. 

Even if I propped my arms up so they weren't holding my hands in place, it was like just the typing itself was doing something that made it hard for me to hold them at the keyboard with sufficient tension to type. 

Am I just unused to being so unclenched? Have I been so tense over the last four years that the relief is affecting my physically in unexpected ways? Or is something wrong? 

My husband made chicken wings with bulgogi sauce over the weekend. I couldn't eat them on Friday or Saturday because I was doing a liquid diet to try and clear out the IBS attack. But on Sunday, I ate them, and they were so incredible that I cried after the first bite. He has set himself a high bar for Thanksgiving when he plans to give the same treatment to some Cornish hens. I look forward to the experiment, but have warned him about the height of that bar. 

I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Like something's wrong and I just don't know what it is yet. 

I just have to focus on not giving into that kind of despair. Focus on something else. I've set some high bars for exercise this month, and so far I'm meeting my goals, even though another cold set in. 

It snowed over the weekend, and I do love me some snow. 

Tummy Troubles

I didn't want to see someone new for my annual wellness exam, but my regular person was out on leave when I was supposed to get it done. So, new person to explain my diet to, knowing that they won't be able to help anymore than anyone else. I've reached a point of just experimenting with foods slowly and I know I'm not getting enough vegetables in my life, but the fiber still triggers gastroparesis pains/issues. 

It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. This new person wasn't all that interested in me, and I didn't have to explain too much. Just that I'm doing the best that I can and exercising a lot and I'll just have to wait and see if my numbers are looking okay from the bloodwork. At this point, I'm assuming that they do look okay, because I have not been called back for a follow up, and they're usually pretty quick about that. 

I've been in a bit of an IBS flare for a couple weeks now. I can't seem to get out of it. My bowels are still moving, but I'm getting mucous coming out and hard stools. Plus nausea and gas and general tummy pain. The usual. 

I know that anxiety over the state of the world is contributing to the tummy issues. I need to figure out a way not to let that stress affect my tummy. Because I don't want anxiety to make my tummy hurt, which then makes me more anxious, which then makes my tummy hurt more etc... 

Maybe retreating to a cave for the next ten years would do the trick...

Since I can't do that (yet), I'm going to focus on what I can control. I will get my solo book written and published. I will exercise: CrossFit goal is 5 times a week, running goal is 3 times a week (1 can be a run/walk as long as there's elevation gain), and I decided to do Power Abs again for the month of November. I will do my job at work and keep getting paid. I might even write another book that's been percolating in my head since August - but solo first. Only got about 1000 words over last weekend. This weekend needs to be better. 

And it will be.